


Varúlfur

by Okmeamithinknow



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, domestic angst, how do you tag things without spoiling the fun parts?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12741444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okmeamithinknow/pseuds/Okmeamithinknow
Summary: Cobra has been making some interesting changes around the house and Lucy intends to find out why.





	Varúlfur

_There’s a fence around her yard when she gets home,_

_Shiny and silver and completely unexpected._

 

A sign hangs on the gate that reads _‘Beware of Dog’_ and Lucy snickers at the sign. _The neighbor kids were in the yard when he got home from work,_ Erik explains when they sit down to dinner that night, _and he worries that Plue might be too aggressive in their new neighborhood._ She laughs outright at the notion of her timid geriatric Pomeranian, who cowers underneath their bed when she vacuums, being vicious enough to attack a child.

She doesn’t think much past that though. They’d talked about all the changes they wanted to make to their house before they bought it. The fence was one of them, though she’s not sure why Erik choose this project to be the first he tackled. But it will make letting Plue out in the morning that much easier. Now she can watch from the warmth of the house, cup of coffee in hand, while the nit-picky dog finishes his business. 

 

_There’s a ring of purple flowers,_

_Planted between the fence and the lawn._

 

He’s out in the yard, elbows deep in dark tilled earth, when she gets back from the grocery store. Laden with heavy bags of paper, she calls out an amused greeting. He finishes placing the flowering plant, one she vaguely recognizes from somewhere but can’t place, and waves a dirt encrusted hand in her direction. Lucy stops to kiss his cheek and finishes putting the groceries away.

That night while they’re cleaning up after dinner, she notices large welts running up and down his forearm. His hands are fine, the silly gardening gloves Lucy insisted on buying, the ones adorned with pretty pink posies, protected his hands well enough— even if they didn’t protect his masculinity. The welts are an angry red color and in patches, almost seem like burns; the skin flaking and falling off. 

“Probably allergic to those plants,” he admits as she tends to them.

Lucy hums sympathetically, spreading a topical cream onto one of the bigger welts. She’s allergic to zucchini plants, so she knows all too well the hazards of gardening. He tells her that the flowers reminded him of her though, and they were on sale— half priced. _The soap probably didn’t help,_ she adds, _the bargain brand detergent drying out his skin._

 

 

_She comes home to a new door for their bedroom,_

_Whorls of silver filigree embedded into the thick oak._

 

Her fingers trace the pattern, the metal cool beneath her fingers, and it takes extra effort to push it open. The lock is an old fashioned lock; its key, heavy and solid, rests on the inside of their bedroom. Someone obviously took time and care to put together such a beautiful piece of artwork.

“It must have cost a fortune,” she says that night, as they curl up with a bottle of wine on the couch.

The television flickers in the background as he ponders the question. Some nature documentary about the predators in North America that neither one are invested in, just background noise to make the house feel more lived in. They’re still living out of boxes. Only moved in less than a month ago, but with Erik working security full-time at one of the big pharmaceutical companies across town and Lucy’s job at the school, they haven’t had much time to unpack. Since the school year’s started, Lucy’s been inundated with caseloads, students needing her attention. This school is harder than the last and the overwhelming number of students who’ve graced the new school psychologist’s door is staggering. This group needing more guidance than the last group of teens at Lucy’s old school.

“Not really,” he answers with a nuanced lie that she catches but doesn’t acknowledge. “It was on clearance and I thought you’d like it.”

She nods, and snuggles deeper into his embrace, pressing a kiss onto the bare skin of his chest.

 

  
_His boss asks him to fill in during the nightshift,_

_Only a couple nights he assures her the following week._

 

There’s been a rash of break-ins recently and Erik’s boss wants extra muscle to cover the nightshift. _They could use the money_ , he says frankly, _for renovations and the like, since the majority of their money goes to paying their mortgage._ He won’t do it if she tells him not to, but the extra cush to their budget is too big a temptation to insist he stay home. Erik makes her swear to lock both the front door and the door to their bedroom. She should be safe enough on the second story. 

She sees him off the next couple days, walking him out to the car before it gets dark. Erik kisses her long and hard, and Lucy tries to ignore the pinched bit of worry that clings to his brow. _She’ll be fine,_ she assures him, _She’s a grown woman after all._

But their bed is lonely without him, the house empty and hollow without his warming presence. It’s not long before she runs out of things to keep her occupied in his absence. So Lucy turns in early, bringing Plue up on bed with her, if only to have another body next her, to not feel so alone when the sun sets. Normally he sleeps in the cute little wicker bed that she and Erik picked up at the local flea market. 

 

_The moon is full in the sky when the noises start,_

_More than just the house settling as the night cools._

 

It’s around midnight when she’s startled awake. Her heart beats heavy in her chest, and she strains to hear what woke her from such deep slumber. _It’s nothing_ , she tells herself, _just a half dream and her body reacting to the slowing down of her heart._ The telltale creek of the basement door, though is harder to explain. Out of every door in their quaint little house, it’s the only one to make such a dreadful screech and they keep it shut, not wanting to waste money heating the unfinished basement. Erik was supposed to oil the door, but he’s been so busy lately.

Blindly she pats Erik’s side of the bed, forgetting for a second that he’s not home at the moment. That his boss had him work overtime again. That she’s home alone save for a tiny dog who’s one swift kick away from death’s door. Plue is no where to be found too, which means he must have slipped off the bed sometime after she fell asleep.

 

_Something scratches at the door, claws, or talons,_

_But something altogether inhuman scraping against the wrought metal._

 

Lucy climbs out of bed, setting her feet down softly onto the chilled hardwood floor. Her phone is downstairs, she realizes too late. Doors and stairs and some _thing_ lying between her and help. She figures she’s better off making a stand than to wait to be killed. She’s screamed at too many cliched horror movie heroines to take her own death lying down. Erik has been adamant about keeping the two of them safe, and now she’s grateful for the baseball bat he keeps tucked behind their headboard. He keeps it wrapped it cloth, so there’s no chance it will scrape against the wall and alert any intruder to their presence. 

She places the bat on the bed, the mattress dipping with the weight of it in the moonlight. Thankful that she kept her promise to Eric lock the door, Lucy slides the key from where she’s set it on the nightstand, and slips it into the pocket of her sleep shorts. It doesn’t quite fit, the handle poking out of side, but she needs both hands free.

She forgot to close the shade, so the light from the moon through the window gives her enough light to see the lock. The lock clicks, and Lucy takes care to slip the door open, careful to make as little noise as possible. But nothing could have prepared her for what lies in the hallway, and a shallow gasp slips from her lips.

 

_There’s an eye, glowing in the darkness_

_And a set of shining teeth glimmer back at her._

 

A furry head snaps in her direction and Lucy freezes, breath catching in her throat. It’s massive and hulking, and there’s an odd sense of familiarity in it’s gaze. A low ominous growl rumbles across the hallway. The beast crouches low; the floorboard creaks under its weight. She drops the bat, and his muscles tense at the sound of wood on the floor below.

Claw marks run over one eye, deep angry gashes that have long since healed over in a pattern that’s more than recognizable to Lucy. How many nights had she run her fingers across those scars. Heard the story of Erik’s childhood and the attack that he barely survived. 

And immediately she knows. The dots connect, little clues she’s been willfully ignoring and deep in her heart, she knows. 

“Erik?” she says, and her voice comes out in a hushed whisper.

Lucy holds out a trembling hand and shuffles forward with tentative steps. The growling returns, much softer this time, a warning. She pauses, holding her breath and when he shifts slightly, lowing his head in a slow nod, she scoots forward until her hand is inches from razor sharp teeth. 

All at once she leans forward, latching onto his head and bring it to her own. Lucy buries her hands into his fur; the color so close to his natural hair in the moonlight. 

“Oh Erik,” she says, leaning her forehead against his head. Erik drops his head to her shoulder, a small whine leaving his throat as he leans into her neck. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

But she knows why. Why he wouldn’t trust her with a secret this big. Why he’d be afraid to tell her. He nuzzles her hair, huffing as her hair tickles his nose effectively distracting her from her morose thoughts.

They’re bathed in moonlight when Lucy stands, hand still buried in the fur around his neck. She beckons him to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her when he crosses the threshold. She locks the door and turns to find that he’s hopped on the bed. He’s sniffing the comforter, nose pressed against the sheets and sneezes when he reaches his pillow. He shoots her a baleful glower and she realizes he’s scented Plue on the pillow. He circles once, twice, and then plops down onto his side of the bed, resting his head on two behemoth paws.

Lucy laughs softly, placing the key back onto the nightstand. She crawls beneath the covers, burying herself in blankets. Erik huffs, blowing a strand of hair into Lucy’s face and she rolls to face him. He whines low in his throat and doesn’t stop until Lucy snuggles closer, resting her head half way on his pillow. 

Warmth radiates from him, lulling her to sleep. They’ll talk about it in the morning, she know. The hows and whys and most importantly where their future lies. But for now she’s content to snuggle up next to her boyfriend… even if he does smell like dog.

 

_There’s a fence around her yard,_

_Shiny and silver and completely unexpected,_

_And now she understands why._

 

**Author's Note:**

> A.N.: Fun facts for those who care:
> 
> 1.) He's totes been a werewolf since before they started dating. The scar on his eye is from when he was bitten as a little kid. The whole "gave up his eye for an extra boost of power" from the show becomes werewolf transformation.
> 
> 2.) I tried to write it without using the words canine, or werewolf, or wolf cause that's too easy.
> 
> 3.) The documentary they're totally ignoring? A documentary about the hunting habits of North American wolves.
> 
> 4.) Varúlfur is Icelandic for werewolf, according to wikipedia.


End file.
